That ill fated Scottisg tale

This is my new phic. Its a POTO Macbeth cross over, with bits added. Hope you enjoy.

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The lightning cracked open the inky sky and the thunder rumbled, growled and roared like a pride of hungry lions. The tempestuous wind screamed through the trees like banshees, whipping anything it could lift along the cobbled road. In this weather the haunted Opera Populaire was even more menacing than usual, the statue of Apollo glinting down and the Lyric Masks grimacing like demons. It had lay dormant for ten years after that fateful night, not a hand touched it, the chandelier lying at the foot of the stage, the smoke still permeating the air, the dust a foot thick and the windows shattered. No one dared re-enter for fear of running into the vengeful creature that haunted it and meeting their doom.

But on this morning, that all hell seemed to be breaking loose from its bonds, a carriage rolled up at the entrance. People in the houses nearby, peered around their curtains. Monsieur Firmin and Andre disembarked. Rumor had it they were now poorer than church mice, the collapse of their musical empire sending them broke, they had a put every cent into it and it collapsed. But the next to disembark was surprising. Three women tall, erect all with fiery red curls, pale white skin and dark in almost identical red and black dresses. They could only be the sisters known only as the Weird Sisters. Monsieur Firmin was clearly nervous of them and of returning but Andre was too keen to sell this dump.

Within the hour a deal was struck, the Opera Populaire was sold for a ludicrously low sum. As Monsieur Firmin and Andre scuttled away into the storm the three sisters stood on the stage, the floorboards creaking.

“When shall we meet again? In lightning, in thunder or in hail,” One breathed.

“When the hurly-burly’s done and battle is lost and won,” the other replied.

“That will be ere the set of the sun,” the final cackled.

At that they disappeared into the storm. They left in their wake a dark shadow that followed them to the door, skirting through the shadows, flitting between the banisters. An icy chill doused all those watching the shadow that paused in the doorway then vanished, as if blown away by the wind.

Everyone knew it, the natural order of the world had been upset and the consequences would be met.

And yet despite the foreboding sense of doom that enveloped all who entered the dormitories filled quickly, the repairs done at blinding speed. Soon the chandelier flew into the sky it inhabited, the stage rose, the orchestra pit filled with musicians and the Opera Populaire, or Garnier as it was now re-named, flew from the ashes like the mythical phoenix. The papers soon began singing the praises of these three sisters, who single-handedly orchestrated its renewal. Some called it magic at the speed it flew up around them others were more cynical. But despite the silence, the lack of response from the spirit that still stalked the corridors, no one from the lowliest cleaner to the highest Diva could shake that feeling of unease. Some still whispered about the inhabitant they often-spied in box 5 or flitting about the scenery or near the cellars. He was still here, The Phantom of the Opera.

Some familiar faces returned. Mme. Giry wasn’t stupid; she knew good money when she saw it. Her immunity had been granted long ago, a long stemmed blood red rose waiting for in her quarters. She lifted it with a smile. He was still here and it was good to be home. The unearthly chuckle that echoed around her proved that.

With her returned her daughter, the now Countess Dubois couldn’t be kept from a stage or a chance for a good scare for all the pearls in the pacific. The now Prima Ballerina found herself shivering at the coldness of her private quarters. But she loved this magnificent place and pirouetted in glee. She couldn’t wait to get started with the newest Opera.

There were also many cleaners, stagehands and other workers, unable to find work elsewhere, returned to their former jobs. Superstition followed them constantly until there was only one place many could find work, back where it all started.

But all could feel it in the air; it ran through their blood like ice. Everyone shied from dark corners and the slightest flitting shadow sent screams of pure horror echoing chillingly through the air. He was here, in all his glory, The Phantom of the Opera.

And it was only a matter of time.

Everyone was gathered for the magnificent event, the announcing of the first show since Don Juan triumphant. Everyone was there, stood on the stage, before the stage and in the orchestra pit. Mme. Giry glanced frequently into Box 5 she could feel his steady, uninterested gaze. The Weird Sisters gathered and announced the Opera.

That ill-fated Scottish tale.

The very name of it inspired fear into the inhabitants. Everyone knew better than to repeat the name, the real name. The stigma that surrounded that play, that William Shakespeare created so long ago, was rivaled only by the tale of the Phantom. Woe betides anyone who said its name within the theater. Many an actor had died for failure to heed that warning. And yet it was being played here, at the heart of all blackness. Murmurs circled about the stage and Mme. Giry felt the surprise then evil glee of his gaze. Oh what an unwise story to dramatize. Oh how unwise to tempt him like this. Were the Weird Sisters just plain ignorant or where they trying to bring him out of hiding?

It was not until the next morning that the answer became evident. The name McBeath dribbled in blood coloured paint was dribbled across the stage backdrop. Oh he was here all right, The Phantom of the Opera.

The cast stood quietly as the roles were read for each person present. This was a play, not an Opera that many present were so used to. There would be no singing or dancing. Because of this many of the Ballet cast were turned away in disappointment except to preform during the entr’acte a portion from Faust. The highest Diva, La Murielle stopped short at swooning when she was informed that her only service to the production was to sing during the portions from Faust.

In a way Anna La Mont was pleased. She could not hold a tune in a bucket and her dancing skills were not brilliant but her acting was her penchant, playing in the London Globe Theatre and in Milan. She had also played ‘the ill fated Scottish tale’ before, so her horror was understandable at discovering Lady MacBeth was to be performed by the audacious little pig, Sally Amore. The blonde pranced about the stage like a Shetland pony, squealing. In disgust Anne realized she was but the lowly housemaid. Oh the horror of it.

As she watched in utter loath of Sally as she carried her script away, gushing to her friends. Anna wandered away through the dark corridors to clear her mind. As she climbed higher, the crowds petered off. She had been warned of travelling alone. Anna snorted, ghost, apparition or whatever it was she knew it was all a figment of her fellow cast members over-active imaginations.

At the highest point, her darkened surrounds were silent and cold. She could no longer hear anything but the pulsating wind outside the roof door. Again more warnings swam in her head but she pushed these aside. Looking around and suppressing a grin of glee, she pushed it open and stepped onto the roof.

Her embroidered court shoes clacked on the roof tiles and the wind pushed against her, flapping her pewter dress and matching silk shawl about her. She forged on towards the statue of Apollo that seemed to be beckoning her, the lyre outstretched to the heavens. At the highest point she stopped grasping the leg of the statue, the windswept winter panorama of Paris spread out before her against the dark sky. Struck by the sheer isolation, Anna spread her arms like the wings of a bird and closed her eyes and broke into a laugh, maniacal and un-lady like. Her auburn curls flew freely as she pulled the Art Deco pin from her hair and threw it aside. Up here she was free. No silly rules, no tragedy to preform, no confines of culture and in particular no Sally-Ann. Alone, like a albatross soaring out over the grey ocean. Free. Her green eyes glowed against her pale skin until her ribs hurt from laughing in the freezing air.

Clutching her corseted sides she began to turn to return inside from the cold when she was seemingly swallowed by a dark shadow. She felt as though she could see through it, yet she felt his hot human breath along her neck and her décolleté and the gloved hand slide like a constrictor along her waist, tender but a warning of the crushing force the bony fingers possessed. Her heart pounded up into her throat and her blood, red and hot blood thundered through her veins. The shadow seemed to swirl and dance around her for long enough for her to look up to his staggering height, her eyes drawn by ivory mask perched as if by magic on his pale face but mostly by those eyes. Golden, lustrous and gleaming, like a cat, with a multitude of emotions flashing through them. Vehemence, passion, curiosity, cocky smugness but above all of them, sadness. Pure heart breaking gloom that hung like rain clouds in his eyes, that tugged at her heart strings, making her want to hold this lost soul to her bosom, to show him love like she herself once felt. All these thoughts stormed in her heart as he vanished, seemingly blown away by the wind.

She stood there, alone, the wind whipping violently about her. Her heart still pounded and suddenly she could no longer feel the cold. Who was that? Yet in her heart she knew it could only be one, that ill-famed creature.